I Survived My First Colonoscopy (and You Will Too!)

Colorectal cancer is no joke, and early detection saves lives. A colonoscopy is easier (and far less dramatic) than what you may imagine

Eric Spitznagel,

AARP

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Published January 29, 2026

miniature toy man stands on a white surface, looking into the opening of a giant, empty cardboard toilet paper roll that looms over him, symbolizing the daunting feeling of a colonoscopy

Facing your first colonoscopy? Don’t worry — the procedure can be surprisingly anticlimactic.

Matt Chase

I always had a reason not to get a colonoscopy.

When my doctor first mentioned it, I was in my late 40s. “We should think about scheduling one when you hit 50,” he said in the calm, casual tone doctors use when recommending things that will one day terrify you.

Plenty of time, I thought. That was Future Me’s problem.

Then I turned 50, and suddenly I had excellent reasons. Work was insane. The holidays were coming up. I had plans. I had no symptoms. I had no family history of colon cancer. I had a powerful, deeply held belief that if you don’t think about your colon, it can’t hurt you.

Also, and this felt important at the time, I did not want a camera anywhere near my butt.

According to the American Cancer Society’s National Colorectal Cancer Roundtable, as of 2023, roughly 1 in 3 adults age 45 and older have never been screened for colorectal cancer. I was not lazy or irresponsible. I was part of a vibrant nationwide community of people pretending this wasn’t going to happen.

Nothing about the procedure sounded remotely appealing. I’d heard horror stories about the “prep,” which is medical speak for turning your digestive system into a Slip ’N Slide. I’d heard about the scope itself, which some guy at a barbecue swore was “like 12,000 feet long.” And then there was the whole matter of being unconscious while strangers did things to my backside that I’d rather not contemplate while conscious.

But here’s what I should have been telling myself: Colorectal cancer is the second most deadly cancer in the United States, killing an estimated 52,900 people in 2025 alone. It’s also one of the easiest cancers to detect and cure when caught early — the five-year survival rate for localized colorectal cancer is 91.5 percent, compared to just 14 percent for advanced-stage disease.

My wife and doctor finally wore me down. I made an appointment, five years past my 50th birthday, with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being told to clean their room.

The prep: A journey into madness

The colonoscopy itself is not the hard part. The prep is the hard part. The prep is where this procedure earns its fearsome reputation.

The day before the procedure, I was to consume only “clear liquids.” This meant water, chicken broth, Jell-O and hard candy — basically a grandma buffet.

But the real star of the show was the bowel-cleansing agent. There are different prep options these days — some doctors prescribe tablet versions like SUTAB or OsmoPrep (24 large pills taken in two doses), others use smaller-volume liquids like SUPREP or CLENPIQ, and some still use the traditional gallon jug. My doctor prescribed a magnesium citrate solution called MoviPrep.

This name is a lie.

“MoviPrep” sounds upbeat and festive, like it’s preparing you for a film premiere. “Oh cool, Movie Prep! Are we seeing the new Marvel?”

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No. You are seeing God. Repeatedly. From the toilet.

MoviPrep arrives as a powder you mix with water, forming a thick, cloudy liquid that tastes like a smoothie made from dog turds, urinal cakes and crushed hope. If you’ve ever wondered what despair would taste like if it were lemon-flavored, congratulations, science has answered that question.

The instructions said to drink an eight-ounce glass every 10 minutes until I’d finished the entire first liter. This is roughly the medical equivalent of waterboarding yourself, but with citrus notes.

About 45 minutes after the first dose, the “prep” portion of MoviPrep kicked in. I won’t go into graphic detail, but for the next several hours, my bathroom became my entire world. Time stopped meaning anything. Distance was measured in steps from the toilet. I briefly considered moving my phone charger in there.

At one point I googled, “Is it possible to run out of insides?”

A urologist friend had assured me that the actual colonoscopy scope was only a few feet long, not the mythical 12,000-foot monster I’d imagined. But sitting on my toilet for the 15th time that night, the length of the scope was no longer my primary concern.

My only question was whether this was my life now.

The procedure: Surprisingly anticlimactic

Here’s the thing nobody tells you about colonoscopies: The actual procedure is a breeze.

I arrived at the hospital the next morning, feeling like a deflated balloon of a human being. I’d been to the bathroom more times in the previous 12 hours than most people go in a week. I was empty. Hollow. A husk of my former self, wondering if I’d ever eat solid food again.

They led me to a pre-op area, where I changed into a gown (the kind that doesn’t quite close in the back — a final indignity before the main event). A nurse came in and explained the sedation process. They’d be using “twilight anesthesia,” which sounded poetic and peaceful, like I’d be drifting through some pleasant dreamscape while they explored my colon.

“You might feel a little pressure,” she said, which is medical speak for “This might be painful, but we’re trying not to scare you.”

I barely remember the procedure room. I remember climbing onto the table. I remember the anesthesiologist saying something cheerful. And then…

Nothing.

I don’t remember the scope. I don’t remember the “pressure.” I don’t remember any of the things I’d spent seven years worrying about. I took what felt like a long, refreshing nap, and when I woke up, it was over.

And here’s the absolute best part: I woke up to good news.

My doctor came to talk with me in the recovery area. No cancer. No polyps that needed to be removed or biopsied. Everything looked normal and healthy. I was clear for another 10 years.

Not everyone gets this result, of course. Many people wake up to learn that polyps were found and removed during the procedure. Some of these polyps need to be biopsied to check for precancerous or cancerous cells. But finding and removing polyps is exactly what screening is supposed to do. Those polyps are caught before they have a chance to become something worse.

I was one of the lucky ones with a completely clear result. But even if I hadn't been, I still would've been lucky, because I finally got screened.

Why we keep putting this off

Lying in the recovery area, waiting for the sedative to fully wear off, I thought about all the years I’d spent avoiding a colonoscopy. Five years of telling myself I’d get to it “eventually.” Five years of inventing excuses that sounded reasonable in my head and idiotic in hindsight.

And for what? To avoid one deeply unpleasant evening and a painless procedure that may very well have saved my life?

The death rate from colorectal cancer has been dropping by about 1.5 percent per year in older adults, largely because people are finally getting screened. Early detection works. Having a doctor remove a suspicious polyp before it turns into something that wants to kill you absolutely works.

I walked into the hospital terrified of embarrassment, discomfort and indignity. I walked out cancer-free, mildly groggy and weirdly proud of myself, like I’d survived some low-budget reality show called America’s Got Colons.

So yes, the prep is awful. You will briefly question the entire concept of modern medicine and wonder if our ancestors who only lived to 40 had the right idea. But if that’s the price of staying alive, I’ll happily drink the dog-turd smoothie again.

Just maybe not on an empty stomach.